


Spike's Dream Date — the Psycho Slayer

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Forgiveness, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike gets a call from the Slayer that cut off his hands. (They work fine, now.) It's a bit chilling, but she says she needs to meet with him, as part of her therapy. So he invites her to tea, of course. Post-Damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spike's Dream Date — the Psycho Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> Joss owns 'em, I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them.

Somewhere, a cellphone rang out the _twenty twenty twenty four hours_ line from the Ramones song. It kept ringing. Spike groaned, took the pillow off his face, and told himself that really, truly, today he was going to get out the manual and set up his voice mail.

Or maybe he'd take the damned phone into W&H and have Fred set it up. And call forwarding while she was at it.

Finally he crawled out of bed, fell on the floor, felt around in the darkness and found his jeans under the chair. Found the cellphone in the pocket. Sprawled out on his back on the hardwood. "Yeah? I mean. Demon Enterprises. Helping the helpless, the ones who can pay, anyway. Can I help you?"

"Spike."

The voice was flat. Unemotional. But it still chilled Spike's spine. And his wrists.

"Yeah."

"I– I got your number. From Andrew."

"Remind me to thank him." That sounded ungracious. He used to be gracious. Of course, that was back before he became a demon. But still. "So. How you doing? Giving you phone privileges, are they? Long distance even?"

"I'm in LA."

"Thought it sounded close by," he said. Inanely. "You're okay then."

"No. Not fully recovered."

Okay. "But... but partly recovered. Right?"

"Yes."

The voice was still flat, almost mechanical. He remembered the young woman with the burning eyes, the gibberish mouth. The bone saw. Mechanical was probably good.

"So, any slayers come with you?" For once, he wasn't thinking of Buffy. Well, he was, but only to think he wasn't thinking about her. He was thinking about this one's Praetorian guard. The ones that kept guard on her.

"Just one."

"Just one, huh." Not that he needed them. He was the Slayer of Slayers. She'd only gotten him the last time by drugging him-- and because he knew she was hurting inside, that she wasn't responsible, that he couldn't let loose and kill her. He wouldn't be able to do it now, either.

But they wouldn't have let her loose if she weren't... controllable.

He spared a thought for her, drugged, neutralized, the wildness dimmed. Poor girl. "So. You need something from me?"

"Forgiveness."

He sat up, pushed back against the wall. "Forgi-- Look. Okay. I'm sorry. I said it then, but you weren't really all there. So maybe you didn't hear me. Or you don't remember. Anyway. Really sorry. Sorry to have caused so much damage so many times. Sorry to have hurt--"

"You didn't hurt me. I know that now. It was a human."

"Yeah, well. Didn't specifically hurt you. Hurt others like you. Lots of them. So-- got to say it to you, 'cause they're not here anymore. Sorry."

"No." Dana's voice lost its flatness, rising and then falling. "No. Look. I'm supposed to do this in person."

"You're supposed to do what?"

"It's part of my therapy. Will you just meet me somewhere?"

He should have said no. He'd already made his apologies. But he thought about how her voice went from flat to real, just like that. Like something he said woke her up. So maybe she was right. Maybe it would help her therapy. "Sure. Where? Creature of night here– can't take the sun."

"Can I come there? Now? I know where you live."

Now that was reassuring. "Okay. Your keeper coming too?"

"Of course. She has to." And she rang off.

With his luck, the keeper would be that Kennedy bint, the mean one. The one who probably thought that his burning up in the hellmouth was a cheat-- that she should've got to stake him in the end. A visit from his two favorite slayers in the whole world. Well, punishment never ceases, as Angel kept telling him.

He pulled on his jeans, found a shirt in the pile of clean laundry. He'd been out all night chasing a Garlock along the wharves (and then drinking and dancing in an after-hours club, but that was business too, or at least it'd go down as such on his bill to the wharf-owner), and slept late. He refused to have clocks in his flat-- time was human construct; only thing that counted was sundown and sunrise. But to judge from the yellow light seeping in under his blinds, it was already mid-afternoon. "Good time to die," he muttered, pulling on one sock and then the other.

He wasn't going to ask for forgiveness, no matter what she said. Not out of stubbornness. But because there wasn't any to be had, really. Forgiveness was just a myth. He'd say something like it. Make a plea that was sort of like a plea for forgiveness without being one. So she was just going to have to survive without her forgiveness. She could forgive him if she wanted-- if she needed. But that's the only way it would work, if she'd do it freely, without him begging for it. And she wasn't likely to do that.

The flat was clean, relatively. The landlord paid for a maid every week, to keep Spike happy and protecting the apartment court from squicky monsters who might drive down the rent. They were too close to the docks here-- too many foreign demons sneaking through in the container cartons. Lucky thing no terrorists had figured that route out yet. Anyway, the flat was clean, and he had tea, and Andrew, who was winning his way into Spike's reluctant dead heart, had sent a case of Hobnobs from London last week. The gift card, a Rembrandt print of a young athlete, from the National Gallery, sat propped up on the telly. _Mr. Giles said you always ate all of his when he brought them from home. So I thought maybe you'd like them. Love, A. P.S. I didn't tell Mr. Giles that you're back. He knew because of Dana. But B still doesn't know. You should tell her. Love again, A._

It was the first package he'd gotten since that de-ghosting package. It was almost as good.

So. Tea. Hobnobs. Boots on. Lights on. Not candles. She might take it amiss. Might think the candles were there for hurling. Might remember how easy vampires burn.

Well. Not that he was going to let her hurt him again.

He wasn't afraid. He never was. Okay. When he was turned. That was scary, no matter how gentle Dru tried to be. Dying is scary. And then when Angelus left, and left him with vengeful Darla (he hated Darla, but she was family) and poor crazy Dru, and Spike had to keep both of them intact. And ... and then not again till he got chipped. That was the worst. He was pretty sure he'd starve to death, the most humiliating death for a vampire. And watching Buffy fall. And then... nothing until he came back a ghost and thought Pavayne was taking him to hell. And then-- looking down and seeing his hands on the floor so far away from his arms. That was scary.

He wasn't scared now. He took out a china plate-- chipped. He put it back and got another one. He opened the hobnob package and arranged the little chocolate biscuits in three towers. They stayed up. Sturdy little towers.

Then the tea things. Okay.

He heard her outside. Smelled her. Straightened. Waited. The doorbell rang, and he took a breath and let it out and went to open the door.

She stood there in the hall, head down, her hands behind her back. Her slayer guard was off to the side, a sturdy girl in a burlap shirt. It wasn't Kennedy, so Spike smiled at her. She started to smile back, then stiffened. "Dana, you okay?"

Dana mumbled, "Yeah. Okay."

"Well, come on in."

Dana never lifted her head. She stared down at the threshold, and then carefully, lifted her foot and crossed it. The other slayer hung back. "I'll wait out here."

"But--" Spike shut up. He wasn't about to confess he didn't want to be left alone with this little slip of a woman. "Sure."

He closed the door and as he turned, saw why the guard was willing to let her go in alone. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back.

He stood indecisive-- not his favorite pose. Finally he said, "Look. I'm a vampire. You're a slayer. We're pretty strong together. We both yank, we can break those cuffs."

She shrank back against the wall. She still hadn't looked up from the floor. "No. It's okay. I'll--"

"You'll get in trouble if you do it, huh?"

"Yeah. But... but also. It's part of my therapy. Accepting."

He studied her for a moment. Now she looked like a subdued little thing. Her wild dark hair was tamed and pulled back. She wore a sedate blue polo shirt and khakis and sneakers, just like any college student here in LA. But he couldn't see her face. "Hey," he said. "Look up at me."

As if she'd become used to taking orders, she complied. Her face was carefully smooth. Unlined. He knew she was twenty-five, but she looked younger-- her face was so blank. But then he looked into her eyes. They were still wild.

He smiled. It made him feel better, knowing they hadn't tamed her entirely. At least he knew what he was dealing with. He'd seen eyes like that before, on werewolves, mostly. But on a slayer or two.

"You know, you remind me of another slayer."

She looked up at that. Her eyes were very dark. "One of those you killed?"

"Well, no." He thought about reminding her that he didn't, no matter what Angel said, murder those slayers. That was an insult to them. They died in honorable combat. But it didn't matter now. "One who's still alive, 'sfar as I know. She went a bit wild too. Hooked up with the wrong guy."

"You?"

He was struck dumb. She added shyly, "Sara told me. You used to date one of the slayers."

"Christ." What were they teaching these slayerettes? Pretty soon they'd all want a tame vampire boyfriend. "No. This is... this is another slayer. And the wrong guy she hooked up with was the mayor. Huh. She'd've been better off with me." Not that he wanted to take that notion any further. Buffy'd been jealous enough just seeing them sharing a smoke-- one of the happiest moments of his unlife. Not sharing the smoke with Faith, but Buffy being jealous.

Long ago and far away. Well, not so long ago. "Anyroad. She got to be buddies with this mayor. He turned out to be a snake demon, wanted to bring on an apocalypse. So, long story short. She ended up turning herself in. Spent three years in prison. And she finally got out to help with this last apocalypse, don't know if you heard about it--" He thought of mentioning his part, but modesty intruded. "Anyway. I asked her. I said, you're a slayer. You coulda just broken out. And she said that she chose to stay in prison, to become someone new."

Dana edged a bit away from the door. "Did she? Become someone new?"

"Faith? Nah. Don't think so. Still tough and sharp as nails. It's just she decided to be good. Stayed herself. Just did good." He tried not to put too much emphasis on that. Not for him to tell her how to behave. But she really did remind him of Faith, her dark eyes and that fierce look of hers. And Faith was okay. Faith never staked him. Not even when they fought.

Enough to make him fond of her, in retrospect. He supposed he ought to be fond of this one too. She could have staked him, but instead she just mutilated him. In their world, that passed for mercy.

Her eyes were down again. But this time she was looking at his arms. He held them out, turned the wrists slowly. "They put them back on. Then, well, vampire healing. Wonderful thing."

"Do they work?"

"Sure. Work fine." He didn't tell her about how they hurt so much sometimes it would wake him up. It was probably psychosomatic anyway. And, well, just punishment, all that. "Want some tea? You been in England, you had to learn to like tea."

She shrugged, and shook her head, and he remembered the handcuffs. "Hey. Sit down there at the table. We'll work it out."

And he put the kettle on to boil, and found the Earl Grey, and put cream in each cup, and then the tea bags and the water. He sensed her taking a seat, all her movements tentative and clumsy. He remembered the girl who threw him through the window, and felt sorry.

But he put the tea in front of her, and let his own cool, and pulled the plate of biscuits over and, nonchalantly, bent to grab one in his teeth.

He startled a gasp out of her, and raised his head, biscuit clasped firmly, and said around it, "Good." Then he shoved the plate over to her side of the table.

And then, with a hint of a giggle-- a Dawn sound-- she grabbed up a hobnob, and together, dropping crumbs everywhere, they munched. "Thirsty work," he said when he swallowed the last bit. And carefully he set his mouth onto the surface of the tea. A little hot, not enough to burn. He made sure to make the slurping noises mums hated.

This time she actually giggled. Then she bent and imitated him. And when they couldn't reach the tea anymore with their lips, Spike showed her how to make a straw of the tongue, and they finished up the most of it. And then, deliberately, without raising his hands, he wiped his chin on his shoulder. And with a smile, she followed suit, smearing the crumbs and tea drips on her blouse.

As soon as they were done, however, she turned serious again. "I had a reason to come."

"Yeah. Right. Well, like I said on the phone. Very sorry. Was evil for a long time. I've changed, sure, but that doesn't erase--"

She interrupted the litany he'd heard too many times from Angel. "No. Not you. You're not supposed to be sorry." She sounded young and petulant, like he'd broken the rules and gotten away with it.

"Well, I am. Sorry. Jesus. Can't catch a break, can I."

"I mean. You didn't hurt me. I hurt you. I'm the one who is supposed to say sorry."

Oh. Now that he wasn't ready for. "But-- but you were nuts. Insane. Look, I loved a crazy lady for a lot of years. I know the signs. You weren't in control."

"Don't say that. I have to be in control. And I hurt you. And you were trying to help me. And so. It's-- it's part of my therapy. I have to apologize. And ask for forgiveness."

Spike got up, shoving his chair aside. "No. You don't have to. Really. Nothing to apologize for. Thanks for--"

"I have to. You don't have to accept it. But I have to say it." After a moment, she added, "And mean it. And I do."

"Okay." Spike grabbed up the tea cups and took them to the sink and started rinsing them. "Accepted. We're done here then–"

"Wait. I haven't done it yet. I just told you I was going to do it. Could– could you turn around? I have to see your face."

He heard the desperation in her voice, and turned slowly, grabbing a dish towel to dry his hands. Not about me, he thought. It's about her. She has to do this. So let her do it and get it over with. "I'm listening."

But she was staring at him. "You have another face."

Apparently they skipped Vampire 101 with this slayer. "Yeah. I'm a vampire. Got another face."

"Show me."

Easy enough. Maybe it would discourage her from-- from what she was planning. He shook his head and changed, and all his senses heightened, his vision sharpening so that he could see the lines of gold in her brown eyes, the dark red shading in her ponytail. He could smell her fear, no, not fear, dread, and he could taste the salt on her brow, without ever moving. The pain in his arms went away too-- he'd have to remember that, the next time it woke him-- and that last little bit of hangover spun away. He lived in human face so much, sometimes he forgot the benefits of vamp face.

She wasn't scared, not really. She studied him, eyes narrowed. "You're the only vamp I've seen up close."

Someday he'd have to talk to Rupert about how to train a slayer. Because they really ought to know better. "Angel's a vamp. The guy with all the hair, came to get me."

"Oh."

"You got to learn to rely on your slayer sense, babe. You should have felt him--" He broke off. Not his problem. Shaking off the game-face, he said, "So. Now you remember all of me, right? The good, the bad, and the beautiful."

She looked down again. "Now I'm going to say it. Okay?"

He didn't want to hear it. Just wanted it over with. "Okay. And then have done."

She paused, and closed her eyes and screwed up her face, and said, all in a rush, "I'm sorry. You were there to help me. And you tried to help me. But I didn't want help. I just wanted to hurt you. And I did. And I would have hurt you more if I could have. And I'm sorry. I won't ever hurt you again. So. Will you forgive me?"

He couldn't answer. No one had ever asked his forgiveness before. He'd just been thinking that it was meaningless, this forgiveness, because it can't undo what's been done. But then she opened her eyes, and they were naked with entreaty, and he said, "Sure. I forgive you."

She rose, awkward in the cuffs, and inclined her head. "Thank you."

"Wait. Let me now. I'm sorry I thought you were a Chinese dragon demon. That's probably a real insult to a slayer."

Her eyes opened wide, and her mouth, and for a second he thought she might laugh. But all she did was nod and go and stand by the door. He went to open it, and the other slayer pushed away from the wall and came to take her arm. "Thanks," she said, and Spike nodded.

He stood there in the doorway as she walked down the hall. At the last minute, before the other pushed open the outside door and let the sunlight in, Dana looked back.

Then she was gone.

 

Spike closed his door, and stood there for a moment, leaning against the wood. Then he went to the bedroom and located his cellphone in the pocket of his discarded jeans. He dialed a number he wasn't happy to realize he'd memorized. A sleepy voice answered.

"Andrew," he said, cool and sharp the way he knew the Junior Watcher liked. "Wake up. Got a suggestion for you. You remember last year, how I trained the slayerettes?"

And Andrew, good minion that he was, remembered very well, and in a few minutes agreed to let Dana stay in Los Angeles for another two weeks.

"You're the only one in the world I'd trust with this, bro," Andrew said. After a moment, he said, "Don't tell Mr. Giles, okay?"

Spike smiled. "Not a word, bro. Not a word."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in November 2004.


End file.
